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Zhelir sat on a park bench, smoke slowly streaming off the end of a lit cigarette, which sat between his lips. He took no drags on the cancer stick, however. His focus was drawn into a story in the newspaper he held, its front depicting the only person running for office in ESUN: Milliardo Peacecraft.

What with the recent rumors of Milliardo owning a Mobile Suit, and what seemed to Zhelir to be rather violent intentions, his taking throne seemed a sure marker of a war.

But this suited Zhelir just fine. He'd never been comfortable with peace. Peace only meant you had to be suspiscious of everyone, not knowing where the next threat would be, whereas with war, you knew exactly who to keep your eye on. However, in these times, one man on his own was about as effective in a war as a knife in a gunfight.

"Time to go shopping..." Zhelir muttered, finally exhaling a considerably large cloud of smoke. He rose to his feet and let the newspaper drop into the waste bin next to the bench. Slowly he set off, down the path before him, towards his return to the battlefield.

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Finally having reduced the cigarette to a smoldering butt, Zhelir tossed it on the pavement and smothered it under his boot. He had now exited the park and was making his way down the streets, heading toward his house. He stood out among those that usually roamed the Sanc Kingdom's streets during the day. While most wore business suits or some type of uniform, he dressed in more casual clothing. On this particular day, he wore a black pair of denim jeans and a blue t-shirt that was so faded that he no longer could tell just what logo it had been sporting. His hair was thick, black, and shaggy, which matched his unshaven face almost too well, and contrasted spectacularly with his bright green eyes.

He stuffed his hands into his pockets and within a matter of moments, withdrew several items. In his left hand appeared a cell phone and a scuffed, silver flip-top lighter, and in his right, a pack of smokes. In what seemed to be a well-practiced manuever, he dialed the number he had been seeking, hit send, and wedged the phone between his left shoulder and the side of his head, while placing a cigarette between his lips and lighting it. Just as he exhaled his first cloud, the dial-tone ended and a man's voice grunted something through the speaker.

"Hey, it's me, Zhelir. I've-"

More grunting through the speaker, a mixture of amusement and aggitation on the sender's voice.

"Yeah, you hit the nail on the head. How much'll it be?"

The man's response caused Zhelir, a rather seasoned smoker, to caugh on the toxin heading down his throat.

"You have GOT to be kidding me." He stammered, trying to regain his breath. "You're lucky you're the only person I can go to for this. I'll have it for you, but I can't say when."

After another series of words that only Zhelir could fully make out, he flipped the phone shut and exhaled, just as he reached his house. He stepped across the threshold after unlocking the door, shut the door behind him, and collapsed into a chair, taking one last final drag, before putting the cigarette out in an asthray and flipping on the news.

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Zhelir stood on the street, across from one of the biggest banks in the Sanc Kingdom. A light sweat coated his body as he gazed at the building. It was time to enter "combat mode," he liked to euphamise it as. When he had to do something that was absolutely wrong, but necesary, he would simply ignore his conscience, ignore every moral he'd ever been taught.

And so, with one final, deep breath, he tossed his cigarette into the dirt and sprinted towards the building. He hoped to God no one would pay much attention to the massive weapon stored on his left hip, so large it looked like he was carrying a miniature shotgun in his belt.

He plowed through the door and tore the weapon from its makeshift holster at his waist, not ready to select any precise target.

"Everybody hit the dirt!" He roared, his eyes swinging wildly across the room. From the littleb it he could gather, there were four guards in the room. Two hit the ground, and two were in the process of drawing the sidearms. With blurr of silver, he had drawn the massive S&W Model 500 from his belt and aimed it at the nearest guard.

With a blast like a cannon, the weapon kicked back and the guard flew clean off his feet, blood spurting from a gaping hole in his chest. Zhelir instinctively leapt behind a stone collumn to his right, and just in time, as two shots dug into the marble, not far from where he had been standing. He crouched down and balled up the muscles in his legs, preparing to leap out back the way he had came.

Exerting all the strength he possed in his legs against the ground, he flew out from behind the pillar and let fly two shots. ne burried itself in the guard's stomach, and the other dug into the marble counter a few inches to the guard's left.

Zhelir rolled to his feet and looked wildly to the other two guards. Both had sensibly remained on the ground, their weapons tossed a few feet before their faces. The robber sprinted forward to the counter and pointed the massive barrel at the nearest receptionist's face, a rather young looking male.

"One and a half million credits, to my account." He growled, and rattled off his account number. He knew he'd have to work fast once he left; his account would be frozen within a few hours of this happening. And, to ensure it wasn't any less than that, he added, "If I don't have that money when I need it, I will hunt down and kill you and every one of your co-workers."

The man's face paled, but he did what he was told. Within a matter of seconds, he had verified that his account had an additional million and a half credits, and was barelling out the front door. He could hear sirens in the distance, which was no suprise. As loud as his weapon was, people outdoors were sure to have heard it. He slipped the weapon behind his back and hailed a cab that was coming near.

Zhelir had the door open and was halfway in when the driver realised what resided behind his customer's back. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor, but too late. Zhelir had already made it far enough into the cab to star. He pressed the barrel of the weapon to the glass between him and the driver and growled, "You take me where I want, or I guarantee you, at least one of the bullets in this gun will make it through the glass."

The cabbie seemed to understand well enough, and did indeed take him to where he requested. "You tell anyone where you took me, you're as dead as the cops I killed a few minutes ago. If you don't believe me, head on back and walk inside."

He knew his luck would run out. There was no way this would all hold together, that no one would blab what they had seen or heard, but he couldn't worry about that right now. All he had to do was get inside that old hanger and get what he needed. And so, less than a minute after he had sprung from the cab, he burst through the doors of the hanger, belonging to the same man he had made a call to a few days ago, about getting ahold of a Mobile Suit. Breathless and shaking, Zhelir saw a short little man come striding out of an office in the far right corner. Zhelir had never learned his name, only his address and phone number. He simply called him whatever fit the context.

"You have it ready?" He asked, his breath short and shaking.

"Yeah." The man replied, looking the taller of the two up and down. "You didn't exactly aquire this money legally, did you?"

Zhelir shook his head and replied, "You don't want me to answer that; when the police question you, they might just want to take it back, if you knew it was stolen money."

The man grinned but said nothing else in response. He meandered into his office and Zhelir followed. A few wordless minutes passed as he transfered 2.5 million credits from Zhelir's account to his own.

"All done. She's waiting for you on the launch pad. I presume you wanna geto ut of here as quick as you can?"

"Yeah," Zhelir responded, finally holstering his weapon. After the old man gave him the security code, the now-fugitive sprinted towards the end of the long, dark building, before he finally squeezed through a narrow opening in a massive set of sliding doors, and reached the launch pad before him. His breath, what little he had remaining, left his body at the sight of the suit before him. Massive, read, and covered in small, circular discs. Its crash shield was already mounted in its left hand, and it seemed all set to launch. So, with a grin, Zhelir ambled into the cockpit, aided by a lift chord, and entered the security code.

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Zhelir's fingers flew across the massive keypad inside the cockpit, initiatiating all required sequences to make his way off this planet.

The main viewscreen came on in time to give the pilot one last view of the hanger before he kicking in the thrusters and checked to make sure all systems were running alright. He noticed that he seemed to be slightly overweight, and his fuel capacity seemed to be larger than specified. It was then that he realised his old "friend," if you could call someone whose name you didn't even know such a thing, had attatched a set of breakaway thrusters to the legs, to ensure he didn't piss away all his fuel on exiting Earth's gravitational pull.

A cross between a grimmace and a grin flashed across his face as the suit launched itself from the ground, gradually gaining speed toward the planet's atmosphere. "You're gunna get yourself caught, doin' me little favors like that..." he grumbled, but thanked him silently just the same. Increasing the thrusters to full, the suit finally tore itself from the harness of Earth's gravity and pelted from the atmosphere. His eyes flew over the console to check for heat damage, but it seemed to be minimal.

The thrusters on the legs seemed to be designed to detatch when empty, as they did so shortly after clearing the atmosphere. Zhelir wondered for the vaguest of moments if they would re-enter the atmosphere.

He tapped in the course for the only colony he knew the coordinates of, and sat back in his seat, exhaling slowly.

"I did it."

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